Midwinter Sun
by Doneril
Summary: As an adult, Harry reflects on the summer of his sixteenth birthday and how his world turned on end. Between the Prophecy, his impending doom, a mysterious ailment, and Snape's dubious assignment as his mentor, it is a wonder he made it out of Hogwarts.
1. Chapter One

_**Midwinter Sun**_

_Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. – Victor Hugo_

_For everything there is a season / And a time for every matter under heaven. – Book of Ecclesiastes_

I leant down and rubbed my leg. It was exceptionally sore today, no doubt anticipating Hermione's visit. Out of pure habit, I manually turned my knee and ankle into a proper, healthy position, knowing full well that the minute I rose to my feet they would twist outward again.

One of the first years stopped in the hall. "Professor Potter, can I help you with anything?"

Honestly, I tried not to glare at the poor girl. I knew what it must look like: the war hero on one knee in the hallway, clearly trying to help his wounded leg. No doubt, she thought she was being helpful. Clearly, hexing her war out of the question, no matter how tempting it might be.

It is at times like this that I appreciate Severus. He has had to deal with this for years. If Poppy tells the story right – and I'm sure she does – Severus has had this since before I was born. I have the greatest respect for him, on my bad days. On my good days, I still feel like cursing him for being a greasy git.

"Professor Potter?"

I turned to the girl and attempted to smile. "Miss Halladay, I believe you have a class to attend."

Her eyes widened and she skittered off, hopefully to class and not to cause mayhem in the halls.

Suppressing a groan, I rose to my feet, feeling my leg turn again as soon as I unbent my knee. Yes, today was not one of my best days. Mind, it was far from my worst, especially during the war, but I would being walking with a decided limp for the next few hours. I shuffled through my robes and found one of the pain relieving potions I tend to keep on me at all times. Just a few sips and I should be able to make it to the Great Hall without too much of a fuss.

At twenty-three, I sometimes feel like an old man, stumbling up and down the stairs, taking this potion and that potion for muscle aches, sometimes staying in bed all day because of everything. Merlin, not even Albus does that!

I've been sick for quite some time. No one really knows exactly how long, though. I was once told that robes can hide a myriad of sins. The same can be said for oversized, baggy trousers and jumpers. Between Dudley's cast-offs and my Hogwarts robes, I suppose it's nearly miraculous that we realized what was going on.

When I lived at 4 Privet Drive, no one really watched me. Sure, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon watched me enough to be sure that I completed my chores and Dudley watched me enough to be able to Harry Hunting if he and Piers were bored with their comic books and the telly. But no one watched me for health problems. I had a few kindly teachers, but my aunt and uncle convinced them rather quickly that I was nothing but trouble. And, as I said, oversized, baggy clothing can hide a myriad of sins.

When I arrived at Hogwarts, in awe of my future and my abilities, everyone saw a Savior and it did not occur to anyone that I could have health problems, myself included. The robes hid my body and I coped as I always have. It never crossed my mind that I could be somehow different from everyone else. When I rode a broom and fought Basilisks and traveled through time, it would seem impossible that something could be wrong.

In fact, if it were not for Remus Lupin, it might have never been discovered until I fought on the battlefield and then it might have been too late. During the summer after my fifth year, I stayed with the Dursleys, doing my usual chores, but also grieving for Sirius. In my dreams, I watched him fall through the Veil. I was also plagued with visions of Voldemort. Whether they were true visions or twisted constructs of his demonic imagination was immaterial. I suffered through them, writhing in my bed as Tom Riddle meted out pain to his loyal followers and determined enemies. During the day, I tried to stay inside as best I could: I did not want to face the outside world, the Muggle world which did not know the threat of Voldemort, and the Dursleys encouraged this habit. They did not want the neighbors asking questions about their delinquent nephew, so if I stayed inside, they were pleased. A few weeks into my holiday I became obsessed with the idea that anyone associated with me would die at Riddle's hands, as my parents, Cedric, and Sirius had. I stopped replying to Ron and Hermione's letters. The mandatory third day letter for the Order became terse and to the point. Remus still has a few and I am embarrassed to read them. Most read something like this:

_I'm fine. I'm eating and the Dursleys are treating me fine. We're having roast pork tonight. I spent the day at the park._

_Harry_

Remus, utterly convinced that something terrible had happened to me, rushed to Surrey in early July. He found me sitting in the garden, desperately trying to find some shade. He tried to talk to me, to get me to tell him what was wrong. I was convinced that if I confided in the older man and became attached to him, I would lose him in the same way I lost Sirius. I am ashamed to admit that I treated him quite badly.

Yet, he returned nearly everyday for that month. Aunt Petunia and Dudley saw him meet me in the garden, or at the front door, or in the park, but they said nothing. They had seen Remus at the station with Mad-Eye and had noticed the distinct change in my behavior. They were staying as far away from me as they could get without actually leaving Privet Drive for another home. I still did my chores, of course – Uncle Vernon refused to be intimidated by 'a bunch of freaks' – but I was left alone during the day.

On my birthday, Remus took me to Muggle London as a sort of treat. I think most of the Muggles thought he was my father, bringing his sullen teenage son out into the city for the day. One elderly woman even reproached me, telling me that I should be thankful that my father cared so much and that I should be kind to Remus. When Remus overheard, he wrapped an arm around my shoulder, comfortingly, and, for once, I did not pull away.

Remus took me to a department store, the name of which I can never remember, to buy me some clothes that actually fit. In reality, I knew that I would pay him back; Remus could hardly afford his own robes, never mind Muggle clothing for a teenager, but, in this case, it was the thought that counted. No one had ever taken me shopping for something so frivolous as trousers and jumpers before that day.

When I walked out of the dressing room, in a pair of fashionable, if inexpensive, jeans and a red and gold jumper, I was not expecting Remus' reaction.

He rushed to my side and immediately began asking what was wrong, had the Dursleys done something, why didn't I tell him I was hurt, and oh, he was going to kill Uncle Vernon if he had done something to me.

Utterly confused, as I thought nothing was wrong, I asked him why he was asking me all these questions: nothing was wrong.

Remus motioned to my right leg, telling me that it was okay to tell him if I was hurt, that he knew it was not my fault.

Looking down, I realized that my foot was indeed positioned awkwardly. My right foot was nearly perpendicular to my left one. I tried to move it so as to make both feet parallel, but it did not work. I tried harder. My foot moved a bit, no longer at a 90 degree angle, but still looking decidedly out of place. I reached down and moved in manually, but my ankle felt immediately strained when my foot came close to a normal position, so I let it go. I turned to Remus and shrugged. So my foot was in a strange position. Decidedly odder things have happened to me both before and since.

Remus reached down and tried to turn it, no doubt in an effort to help. But it hurt and I instinctively kicked him. Immediately I felt terrible; I had just injured my only lasting link to my parents and the only person to ever seek me out in order to celebrate my birthday, as well as the man who, for all intents and purposes, was my surrogate godfather.

He told me that we should find someone to look at my foot. Inwardly, I had rejoiced at the fact that he used the word 'we,' but also feared it. It meant that he was as attached to me as I was to him. That meant he was not safe. I told him that I did not need help for my foot, that it just sometimes did that, which was quite true. But I just learned to deal with it and get on with my life. It was not hurting me in particular and no one noticed when I wore my robes or regular clothing.

The rest of the shopping spree and the ensuing dinner at a Muggle restaurant were overshadowed by the incident in the dressing room. Remus tried to convince me that I needed to see a Mediwizard and that St. Mungo's was not too far away. I stubbornly insisted that nothing was wrong. I did not want to return to the magical world just yet and also knew that if I went to St. Mungo's with a known werewolf, no matter that he had been my professor and best friend to my parents, it would be splashed all over the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly by the next morning. And I did honestly think that nothing was wrong and could see no point in embarrassing myself and Remus because my leg decided to be a bit twitchy that day.

That night, when Remus left me at Privet Drive, I was quite angry. Remus had become insistent that I receive help and I dug my heels in and protested. Remus never raised his voice to me and I did not throw a tantrum as I had at school the previous year, but it was quite clear that we were angry with one another. By the time I was inside, my leg was cramping, as it often had that summer. I ignored it, rationalizing that I had spent the whole day in London on my feet and I was merely tired. My sleep was wracked with nightmares and visions, some of Voldemort killing Remus in front of me, some of my memories of Sirius and Cedric, and one recurring nightmare of Sirius, the night I learned that he was not the traitor after all, receiving the Kiss because I did not have the strength to summon a Patronus.

When I woke and went to the kitchen for my grapefruit-and-cottage-cheese-with-a-side-of-tea breakfast, I was exhausted. Voldemort had not been torturing anyone, thankfully, but between my constant fears, the fight with Remus, and my nightmares, my sleep had been everything but restful. I was quite thankful for the caffeine in my tea.

After I washed the breakfast dishes and cleaned the kitchen, I escaped to the park for the day. If Remus wanted to see me, he would know where to find me. Half of me hoped that he would come after me again, despite our argument and my fears. The other half expected and almost desired that he would realize what I burden I was and would leave me alone. Once again, though, Remus would do the unexpected.

Remus brought Snape.

To say that Snape and I had ended the year on poor terms would be a bit like saying that Tom Riddle thinks that Muggles have cooties. In a sense, it's very true, but it does not come close to expressing the breadth and depth of the emotion. I had made a nearly unforgivable breach of Snape's privacy during the school year and Snape had been invading my mind, taunting me with my worst memories for months before that. The mutual hatred we had felt for one another had blossomed and grown during that time. Sometimes I felt almost empathetic with Snape's life as it was not entirely dissimilar to my own, but then he would do something like play one of my most hated Harry Hunting sequences over and over in my mind until I pushed him out of it due to sheer desperation.

So, to say that I was surprised to see Snape, in Muggle clothing, standing in the middle of a park in Little Whinging would be quite the understatement. I remember what happened that day quite well. It was August the first and my life would never be the same.

"I do not see anything amiss, Lupin."

I had not even heard them Apparate, but, then, I had been distracted by my own torn feelings over Remus. I saw them and watched them, but I did not say anything.

"Harry, come over here." I complied with Remus' request. "Would you roll up your trouser leg and let Severus look?"

Slightly confused, I pulled up my trouser leg so that Snape could see me. He frowned for a moment, though whether it was over my leg or over the fact that my trousers did not fit, I do not know.

"Tell me about your visions."

"What?" This man had been a right bastard to me since the day I set foot in Hogwarts and now he wanted me to tell him about my visions? Was he mad?

"Your visions," he repeated and the unspoken 'you ungrateful brat' hung silently in the air between us for a moment. "Do you suffer the Cruciatus?"

Frowning, I nodded. "Yes – sometimes. The Headmaster says that I do not feel them entirely full force, as they're channeled through Voldemort, but I do know it."

He flinched when I said Voldemort's name aloud. "How long has this been going on?"

I shrugged. "Since the night of the Third Task. Dumbledore says that my blood strengthened the bond between us."

Snape and Remus had a silent conversation over my head, clearly exchanging looks. Remus looked half smug and half desperate while Snape just looked horrified.

"What does it matter anyway?" I asked, suddenly angry that there was, clearly, something I did not know. "Because it's channeled through Voldemort, I won't go mad. It isn't strong enough to do that."

"Stupid, foolish boy!" Snape snapped. "There is more than one reason that the Cruciatus Curse is an Unforgivable! How many times have you been under it?"

"I don't know. It's not like I keep a diary. A handful of times, maybe. Not much more than that."

"A handful? Is that ten? Twenty? Thirty?"

I took a step backward, slightly fearful of Snape's anger. "Probably between ten and twenty. I don't know. But it's not more than twenty."

Some of Snape's anger seemed to dissipate at that. He turned to Remus. "It's not that, then."

Remus shook his head. "Even if it isn't caused by the Cruciatus, it could still be. The Cruciatus isn't the only cause. It happens to Muggles, too."

By this point, I was lost and that made me angry. Remus and Snape were talking in riddles, but it was clearly about me. Something that was an after-affect of the Cruciatus? "What are you talking about?" I snapped. "There's nothing wrong with me!"

"No?" Snape asked coldly. "There absolutely nothing wrong with you?" I should have known better than to trust him when his voice was so soft and smooth. "Then why don't you have a run on the path around those swings?"

My leg was still sore, but I would not back down when Snape was so clearly challenging me. So I left the two men to argue it out themselves and headed to the path. But before I had even made one full loop of the path at a full run, I fell into the dirt. It felt as though my entire leg had just given way under me, that it did not have the strength to carry my weight anymore. Immediately, Remus was at my side and helping me onto my feet. I realized that I could stand on my own, despite the feeling of weakness in my leg, but I chose to lean on the werewolf. If I had fallen once, I could fall twice.

"We should bring him back to headquarters," Snape told us, as Remus helped me limp back toward the man. "Even if his problem is not so serious, the boy cannot be trusted to be able to run from trouble and the fool Ministry will not allow him to defend himself."

"I'm fine," I protested weakly, still clinging slightly to Remus. "It was just a leg cramp, that's all."

Snape glared at me. "I'm sure that's why you're attached to Lupin like a barnacle – because absolutely nothing is wrong with you."

I could not come up with an argument against that particular approach, as it was true and undeniable. In any case, I released Remus and found that I could stand on my own. "I will not see a Mediwizard."

"Of course not. The Boy-Who-Lived must have special treatment."

Remus looked livid at that comment. "He's embarrassed, Severus!" Snape's eyes trailed on me for a moment. "Anything he does in our world is front page news! And do we really want everyone to know about this?"

Snape looked at Remus levelly. "I suppose not. Very well. We will bring him to headquarters. I will do as much diagnostic scanning as I can. Depending, we will have Albus bring him back to school and see what Poppy can do. If worse comes to worse, we can do things the Muggle way. You make a point. We oughtn't let… my colleagues know what is happening."

I was still utterly and completely lost. I had no idea what they were talking about or how the next few months would change my life entirely. "I'm going back to Grimmauld Place?" I asked, my voice cracking.

Snape nodded. "That would be for the best. I have to get back to Hogwarts," he glared at Remus and me, as though we were keeping him from something desperately important, "but I will be there tonight. I can do scanning, as can Vance, then. Do try to not hurt yourself, Potter."

Remus took me back to Privet Drive and, for the first time, I realized I had an ever-so-slight limp when I walked. I suppose my clothing had even hid it from me. I tried questioning Remus as to what was wrong, but he refused to tell me, saying that we would discuss it that night with Snape and Emmeline Vance, an Order Mediwitch. We gathered my belongings, few that they were, and took the Knight Bus to London. From there we walked to Grimmauld Place and I tried to not feel self-conscious, but I imagined every eye on me as I stumbled on bits of broken pavement and, once, nearly fell to the ground, saved only by Remus' quick reflexes. I spent most of that afternoon as red as a tomato and watching my feet.


	2. Chapter Two

_**Midwinter Sun**_

_Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. – Victor Hugo_

_Mere fact will never stop an Englishman. – George Bernard Shaw_

I stumbled into Grimmauld Place, quite literally. I had never thought that a trip through London would take so much out of me. It was all I could do to make it to the kitchen and collapse on a chair. I was relieved to escape the embarrassment of stumbling over my own two feet all over London.

The darkness and memories haunting Grimmauld Place were oppressive. From my vantage point on the kitchen chair, no matter where I looked there were memories of Sirius. Here was where he and Remus had sat when I fire called them from Umbridge's office. There was where he sat at Christmas dinner. Over by the sink was where he had talked to me about my appearance before the Wizengamot.

I closed my eyes and tried not to cry. I had mourned my godfather's death in the privacy of the second bedroom at Privet Drive. I had dealt with the deaths of my parents and of Cedric. I could deal with returning to Grimmauld Place. I would not bawl like a girl in the middle of the kitchen when anyone could walk in on me.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Remus murmured as he took his seat beside me.

I merely shook my head, not trusting my voice.

"Would you like some tea?" he offered, not unkindly.

I smiled, remembering our meetings in my third year, when he taught me the Patronus Charm, the one that had saved Sirius. Somehow, that memory still remained untainted by my grief at my godfather's death. "That might be nice."

"Mint or chamomile?"

"Normal tea?" I asked, slightly confused. Tea with Remus was always tea. He had never struck me as the sort of man who resorted to herbal teas.

Remus looked sorry, but shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Since we don't know exactly what's wrong, you probably shouldn't have any stimulants. I don't want to hurt you or have Poppy, Severus, and Emmeline on my back."

Slightly disappointed, I agreed with his points. "Mint, then."

I watched Remus tap the kettle to boil the water. I was still quite confused, but it was clear that Remus was doing what he could. It would not do to blow up at him. Whatever was happening was probably my fault, anyway.

"Remus!"

"What?"

Suddenly, I felt bad. From the look on the werewolf's face, he had assumed that something absolutely monstrous and terrible had happened to me. "It's a good thing, sir. Look at my legs! They look normal!"

Remus looked down and then smiled at me. "So they are."

"There's nothing to worry about then," I crowed. "This means it was just a- a coincidence or something, right?"

Remus just looked at me soberly.

"Right?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? But I'm fine now! I don't need Snape's help!"

At that point, I heard the distinct noise of Tonks falling over herself in the hall and regretted raising my voice to Remus.

The portrait of Mrs. Black, a loathsome decoration in a must-encrusted home, began to shriek and howl. "Filthy traitors! Half-bloods! Mudbloods!" As the painted woman continued her wild rant, I could not help but flinch, for she, as with everything in that godforsaken house, reminded me terribly of my loss.

Probably sensing my innate discomfort at being in my late godfather's home and my equal discomfort at the thought of becoming Snape's patient (or, as I then thought, guinea pig), Remus wrapped his arm about my shoulders, not terribly unlike the paternal and avuncular gesture he had offered me the previous day when we were shopping. Once again, I leant into it, needing, on many levels, the support he offered to me.

I suppose that it was around this time, the summer I turned sixteen, that I began to look to Remus as I had previously looked to Sirius. Before that summer, Remus had been my former professor. Yes, I knew that he had been a close friend to my father and had watched out for me during my third year and was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, but that was all he had been. Then, he suddenly seemed to pick up where Sirius had left off. I do not pretend to think that some of it was not out of guilt: I later learned that Snape had told the Order of some of the results of our Occlumency lessons, most specifically of the abuse I suffered at the hands of the Dursleys during my childhood. He has since admitted to me that it had stung him deeply to learn this and that he still feels guilty that he, as the last Marauder standing, had abandoned me. I have tried many times to deter him from this spectacularly negative line of thought, but it remains. He also was trying to fill the gap left by Sirius in both of our lives. He had been uncommonly close to Sirius, and I was clearly grieving for the loss of my first and last truly parental figure. We were both quite vulnerable that summer and it was not terribly surprising that we learned to cling to one another like drowning rats. Perhaps rat is the wrong animals to be using. Drowning dogs? Drowning wolves? Nonetheless, the expression speaks for itself.

Tonks poked her head into the kitchen, currently sporting hazel eyes and blue curls, a slightly disturbing combination that she repeated often that summer. "Snape back?"

If anything, Remus tightened his hold on me at Tonks' comment. "No, not yet. He did say, though, that he'll be by later tonight."

"Tell him then that Kingsley won't be back tonight?"

Remus nodded.

"Why won't he come back?" I asked.

"Wotcher, Harry!" Tonks exclaimed when she saw me. "Didn't see you sitting there! Old Shacklebot's been tied down at the Ministry lately. I'm lucky I managed to escape their clutches today."

She and Remus laughed at this, the dry, rusty laugh of people who have little to laugh at, but know that if they do not laugh at something, they will break apart another way.

"Would you like to join us for some tea?" Remus offered.

Tonks shook her head, the blue curls cascading around her face and neck, somewhat like a strange, earthbound mermaid, though I doubt that Tonks would have taken kindly to a comparison to the Muggle Sirens. "Can't. Ministry thinks I'm off investigating something or other. I just wanted to pop by and see how everything was running here."

When she left, not rousing Mrs. Black for a second time, Remus turned and poured me my mint tea. I was pleased to note that he was joining me in the herbal brew, rather than taking what we both wanted, but I could not have.

"You seem nervous, Harry."

I remember staring at him in shock. Of course I was nervous. He and Snape had literally picked me up from the Dursley's (never home) in Surrey and brought me to the house of my late and beloved godfather due to a mysterious ailment they refused to out-and-out explain. Why would I not be nervous?

Remus laughed, this time a slightly mirthful chuckle, most probably at the look that undoubtedly decorated my face. "Don't be so worried."

"Don't be so worried?" I snapped, the old feelings of anger and frustration quickly rising to the surface. "Don't be so worried? What would I be worried about? Something is quite clearly wrong with me – and how would I ever be able to save the world and kill Voldemort if I'm defective?"

The look in Remus' eyes was almost enough to break my heart and I suddenly felt incredibly guilty, but the pain was gone from his face almost as quickly as it had come, and he became quite composed. "You know that's not why I'm here."

"No, of course not. I'm James' son, that's why you're here. Snape is here – or will be – because the Boy-Who-Lived can't have any problems."

It became clear that Remus was trying to restrain his anger, He became very concentrated on his teacup, his fingers bent tightly around the rim, though he did not sip, and the werewolf took several deep breaths. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he bit out between his teeth, "but I'm not looking after you just because you are James' son and certainly not because I think you need to save us all. I'm worried because you are Harry – the messy-haired boy who loved my class enough to seek me out and ask questions about Dementors, even though it exposed your vulnerable points. You're the boy who has had a rough childhood and a rocky adolescence. You are a student with a knack for Defense and a hatred for both Divinations and Potions. You're Harry. And, yes, you are the only son of my best friend. You are the Boy-Who-Lived. That is part of who you are. But you are more than that. Do not underestimate why people care about you, Harry."

Hearing Remus' emotions and realizing that I was acting like a complete and utter prick, I fell silent. I honestly had no idea what to say. No one had told me that they cared for me like that; certainly not the Dursleys! I was something of a surrogate child to the Weasleys, but they already had more than enough children and often felt that their care and love was implicit and needed no words. Sometimes Remus had more understanding of me than I really cared to know.

"I'm sorry," I admitted, breaking the cold silence. "It's just… So many people don't. They see my scar. Or my hair. Or my eyes. It's like… Sometimes I just want to be me. Harry."

Despite my utter lack of coherence, Remus seemed to know what I meant. Once again, that comforting arm wrapped around my shoulders. I had gone for so many years without contact like that – just simple gestures of affection from someone as close as family – that it felt wonderful to merely be held for a few moments, even if I were a sixteen year old boy.

"We do see you like that, some of us, anyway."

"Then why are you keeping me in the dark about all of this? If you really care, wouldn't you just tell me what's going on? I mean, it's my body!"

Remus sighed, but did not remove his arm.

"Professor?"

"Harry, there's a reason we're not telling you," Remus answered after a moment of silence.

I tensed, remembering that a great deal had been hidden from me and, most probably, a great deal more was still hidden from me, all by people who most definitely had their 'reasons.'

"We don't know."

"What?"

"We don't specifically know what is going on. That's why Severus and Emmeline are coming later."

"But Snape said he knew something!"

"No, he didn't," Remus sighed.

"He asked me about my visions," I protested.

Remus shook his head, but did not appear to be angry. "Harry, he had to ask. If this were an effect of your visions, drastic measures would have to be taken. It is hard on you, I know, to deal with Voldemort, but if could be physically hurting you – it would only become worse as time progressed."

"You can stop my visions? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We could. But it would be deeply involved. You wouldn't be able to sleep on your own and you would have to be in the constant presence of an experienced Legimens and Occlumens, mostly likely the Headmaster or Severus."

This quieted me. The thought of not needing to endure Voldemort's sick-minded games was nothing short of miraculous, but I did not like the idea of spending my life joined at the hip with Dumbledore or Snape. I had a terrible history with Snape and I was still furious with Albus for keeping the Prophecy from me for all of those years. Also, I admit, I partially blamed both men for the death of Sirius, though I still felt his death on my own hands as well.

I did not leave the kitchen of Grimmauld Place that afternoon. Remus tried to lure me into the rest of the house, asking me if I wanted to keep the room I had shared with Ron the previous summer, if I wanted to help clean the drawing room, if I wanted to see how Molly Weasley had fixed the stairs (and removed the House Elf heads). Each time, I resisted, not wanting to experience the memories the sights would undoubted force me to remember. Looking back, this was rather cruel to Remus, who had lived the year with Sirius in that house.

The two of us ate a strained and quiet supper in the kitchen. None of the Order members had been by since Tonks' surprise visit earlier in the afternoon. It was a simple meal – some stew, a bit of bread and butter, a little more mint tea. It was a lovely change from the food at Privet Drive, but the atmosphere was oppressive and hardly conducive to usual mealtime chatter. We barely finished it before Snape and Emmeline Vance tumbled out of the fireplace.

I remembered Emmeline Vance from the previous summer: she had been among the Order members who had rescued me from the Dursleys' and flown me to Grimmauld Place. She looked rather no-nonsense, with her hair tied away from her face and her robes without the frills and drapes that many witches enjoyed. She looked to be only a bit younger than Snape, but the soot that marked her face might have added some to her age. Her face, though relatively smooth, had the maternal look some women have and I admit I found that to be rather comforting. If she and Snape were to be looking me over tonight, at least one of them would not be cruel about it.

"Harry Potter," Vance said with a smile, as Remus handed both her and Snape some hand towels with which to wipe their faces. "It is a pleasure to meet you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances."

Snape just scowled at me, no doubt remembering my reckless history and deciding already that the only reason I was there was that I had somehow injured myself on one of my wild, pointless, Gryffindor adventures.

"Why don't we go somewhere more comfortable?" Vance suggested. "This might take some time and it won't be any fun to do it on these hard wooden chairs."

I looked at my feet, once again not wanting to venture out into Grimmauld Place. Thankfully, Remus took over and led us to the drawing room, where he joined me on the sofa and Snape and Vance took two wingback chairs. The room was only lit by a fire in the fireplace and the few candles, some in sconces on the walls and some on the side tables, that Remus saw fit to light. Still used to Muggle incandescent lighting, the flickering gold of fire seemed to play games with my eyes and make the shadows in the corners loom. Vance, who was, apparently, a Mediwitch from St. Mungo's, asked me a number of questions.

Some of the questions were rather uncomfortable. I had to answer personal queries about my childhood and home life. Once, when I described my cupboard, Remus left the room for a few minutes and I could hear him pacing up and down the hallway outside the drawing room, muttering to himself. Even Snape looked taken aback after some of my answers about my childhood. When the question and answer session was over, Vance, Snape, and Remus knew more about my life than I had ever dared tell Ron, Hermione, or Sirius. The adults looked exceptionally displeased, even Snape. Remus muttered something about strangling Uncle Vernon when I explained about the bars on my window before my second year. Vance's expression merely became darker and darker throughout the interview and when she had finished she murmured a few invectives against Dumbledore. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I had told people about my home life before I did, rather than naïvely assuming that they knew because they looked after me.

Then Vance told me to lie down prone on the sofa. With the help of Snape, she cast a number of diagnostic tests on me, sometimes murmuring quietly under her breath. Periodically, she would ask me questions pertaining to my health, such as, "Why are all of the bones in your arm so new?" and, "You seem to be suffering mildly from malnutrition. I thought you said that your relatives had been treating you well?"

After about an hour or so, she and Snape spread some parchment on a side table and began an earnest discussion between the two of them. Remus rejoined me on the sofa, this time not touching me. "Do you have any questions?"

I shrugged. "When will they know what's wrong with me?"

"That's a rather negative way to look at things."

I did not particularly care if I was being negative or not. It was a fair question and I told Remus so.

"It depends. Depending on the information from the diagnostic scanning, we might know tonight or we might need to wait some time."

For a while, we sat in relative silence, Remus and I watching the hearth fire and my examiners consulting charts and spells and books. As I heard a clock chime eleven, I was slightly shocked that it was so late. The Mediwitch and Potions Master were still in conference and Remus and I were still politely sitting on the sofa, though Remus had retrieved a tome on blood magic from one of the book shelves. I had been nervously folding and refolding a piece of parchment into interesting shape and it was beginning to be worn along the folds despite its durability.

"One last test, Potter," Snape announced from his place by the table.

Resigned and a bit tired, I looked up. "Do I need to lie down again?"

Snape shook his head, his greasy hair shining in the firelight. "This potion should tell us the rest of the information we need." He handed me a vial of clear, but thick liquid.

I swallowed it as quickly as I could. The potion tasted terribly bitter, but as though the maker had tried to sweeten it. It was a nauseatingly taste, only made worse by the fact that it coated the mouth and throat. It lingered on my taste buds and filled my nose, making me want to sneeze. I struggled not to gag on it. A few minutes after swallowing it, my limbs began to shine with a soft, slightly golden glow.

As Vance sat down in her chair, hard and clearly shocked, Snape voiced their mutual reaction. "Oh, damn."

Author's Note:

I greatly appreciate the work of my two betas, Danijo and Toasterlicious, on this piece, especially since they know how close to the heart it is for me.

For my reviewers:

sunnysparkles, LalaithoftheBruinen, kokomocalifornia, CrazyforYou, Q-BriarxJade-Q, VAL, DSDragon: Thank you for the encouraging reviews. I hope you continue reading.

Silver Moon Rebel: Yes, these first few chapters will be a bit confusing. Part of this is quite purposeful: Harry and the others don't honestly know exactly what's happening. When this sort of thing happens in real life, there is almost always a period where everyone hangs in limbo, not knowing what exactly is happening.

duj: Fair questions. The disorder I have given Harry (and Snape) is a fickle one. It can fall into remission without warning, but never truly goes away. Also, it changes according to emotions, health, level of exhaustion, weather, hormones, and body position. For example, it might affect someone while he is standing, but not when he is sitting. Or it could affect a woman when she is painting, but not when she is writing. It might affect someone more when he or she has a chest cold than when he or she is relatively healthy. Also, Harry's is adolescent on-set, with a mind to the emotional turmoil he is experiencing. He has not had this problem for a long time, but no one knows exactly when it started.


	3. Chapter Three

_**Midwinter Sun**_

_Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. – Victor Hugo_

_Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory.__ – __Albert Schweitzer_

I had never heard my professor swear in front of a student. Clearly whatever the glow meant, it was something bad. I really should have expected it, though. I was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, for Merlin's sake. Normal, happy, non-live-threatening things do not happen to me. And if it were enough to make a Death Eater swear and lose his composure, my health readings must have been awful.

"That changes things," Vance murmured. "That changes things."

"What's wrong with me?" I managed to whisper.

"Very little," the older woman replied, clearly trying to be encouraging. "You do not appear to have degenerative nerve damage, exceptionally extensive neurological damage, particularly devastating muscular damage, or any cardio damage at all. In fact, for the most part, you are a healthy young man, Mr. Potter."

"What's wrong?" I asked in a stronger voice.

"The tests are hardly conclusive, Mr. Potter," Snape replied, seeming to have come out of his stupor. "We will not be able to answer that particular question for some time yet."

It was amazing that, in two sentences, Snape could make me feel like an utter fool. His residual bitterness and sarcasm seemed to drip like poison. He made it utterly clear, in tone and facial expression, that I should have known the answer to my question before asking it. The fact that Vance looked as though she wanted to strangle him then and there was a small balm to my much wounded pride.

"Then why did you swear?" I countered. "You don't normally do that."

Snape glared at me as though he wished he could turn me into a pile of smouldering ash by the power of his will alone.

"The results, while inconclusive, are leaning toward one diagnosis," Vance replied for my professor. "And Professor Snape happens to share that particular diagnosis."

I winced, not wanting to share anything with the Potions Master, much less a medical diagnosis. Snape, on the other hand, would have made a thundercloud appear cheerful and happy at that particular moment. The glare was turned from me and Vance received it at full power. She ignored it entirely and Snape, his weapon defeated, stormed from the room in a swirl of heavy black fabric.

"What exactly is the diagnosis?" Remus asked worriedly. "I know that Severus suffers and he did not when we were in school, but nothing more. When I taught," here the werewolf paused for a pained breath, "he was better than he is now. He isn't seen without a pain reliever or muscle relaxant."

"I hardly think that it is my place to say," Vance hesitated for a moment. "But seeing as young Harry may have a similar… problem, I suppose… Severus suffers from a focal dystonia in the hand. At the moment, it has remained hemi, but we do have fears that, should he continue to suffer at Lord Voldemort's whims, both of his hands shall be affected. His position as Potions Master is in jeopardy. Albus suspects that Voldemort may be trying to draw Severus out of Hogwarts by making him incapable of fulfilling his position as Potions Professor."

I just blinked at her. Sitting where I was, she could have been speaking fluent Greek and I would not have misunderstood her more. The only bit that I caught was that Snape was in some sort of danger from Voldemort and that it involved his hands.

"What?" Thankfully, Remus seemed to be in the same predicament. "He suffers a what?"

"A focal dystonia in his hand," Vance repeated slowly. "His right hand to be exact. He is a lucky man to be ambidextrous. He would be in a world of trouble right now if he were right handed."

"A focal dystonia?" I echoed. "What's that? Do I have that in my foot?"

Vance smiled at me and rested her hand comfortingly on my knee for a moment. "The similarities in your diagnoses, Harry, are in the dystonia. I think you may have it as well. It is fairly rare and usually associated with the Cruciatus Curse, though, for some as of yet unknown reason, sometimes Muggles suffer from the condition as well. Severus' dystonia exists only in his right hand, at the moment. For you, it is probably generalised, given your age and position."

I felt like a complete moron. The Mediwitch clearly expected me to understand everything she just said, but that was not the case at all. "Generalised? Dystonia?"

"Remus," Vance chided. "Didn't you tell him anything?"

Remus opened his arms, palm up, as if to proclaim his innocence. "It could have been nothing, Emmeline. I did not want to scare him."

"I wouldn't have been frightened," I protested.

"Very well then, I would not have wanted to be frightened myself. No use in creating problems that don't exist."

Vance rolled her eyes, an action that made her seem more like an irate schoolgirl than an accomplished Mediwitch working with a secret, underground militia. "I apologize, Harry. I would not have brushed over it so quickly if I had known that Remus had not explained everything to you."

"It's fine. But what is this dystonia? I've never heard of it before."

"It isn't generally studied, either in our world or the Muggle one. It is fairly rare and, when it occurs in witches and wizards, almost always associated with Dark magic. It is a major side effect of the Cruciatus Curse, as I am sure Severus has explained to you. A few other spells, all quite Dark, can also cause it. No one knows for sure why it happens to Muggles as well. I have dedicated the past few years to studying it, along with a few other so-called Dark Diseases. The Ministry checks up on me on a fairly regular basis to make sure I'm not hiding dead Muggles in the closet, but my research should be helpful to the Order, especially you and Severus. We are in the process of developing some new treatments, ones that will last longer and be more effective at the same time."

She paused for a moment, letting me absorb the information.

"As to what the problem is exactly… Well, that is a bit harder to explain. We really don't know what causes it, even in the case of the use of the Dark Arts. Do you understand the mechanics of the Cruciatus Curse? I know you studied the Unforgivables at Hogwarts." When I shook my head, she continued. "The Cruciatus Curse does not actually cause physical pain. That is, the curse does not attack the body as a whole. The curse affects the brain and forces the person to feel the pain of torture without the torture actually occurring. This imbalance can be what drives Cruciatus victims mad." I nodded here, remembering Neville's poor parents, confined to madness and a ward at St. Mungo's. "It is assumed that this imbalance is what causes the disorder as well. The other spells associated with dystonia and dyskensia are also spells that cause the brain to feel something that is not real. Some are hallucinogenic, some are torture spells that are simply weaker forms of the Cruciatus, and some others are Dark spells once used by medieval lords to reward particularly loyal retainers. The Muggles were a step ahead of us for once and actually found out what part of the brain is affected: the basil ganglia. We hope that this information might help us to rehabilitate Cruciatus victims."

"The problem that is caused by… whatever it is… is a bit harder to explain. Perhaps if I could ask you some questions, you might understand better. Have your muscles hurt at all over the holiday? I know you had not noticed your feet moving differently, but did anything hurt?"

I shrugged, as nervous teenagers are wont to do. "Sometimes," I conceded. "If I had been working in the garden for a long time, my legs would cramp up, but that's normal. If you overdo anything, it hurts. Merlin knows, I've done that on my broomstick more than once."

"Were there any other time?"

"Sometimes it hurts to hold my quill for too long. When that happens, my script is horrible: almost as bad as when I first started Hogwarts and did not know how to use a quill at all."

"That's one symptom of it. At St. Mungo's, we call it fixed muscle posture. It can mean that your muscles are twisting in ways that they are not supposed to move and then becoming stuck in that position. Have you been experiencing any spasms?"

"What?"

"Spasms… Have your arms and legs been moving jerkily at all? Does any limb tremble involuntarily?"

I frowned. "Sometimes I'm a little shaky after I do a lot of work during the day. But that's normal, isn't it? I mean, I don't drink that much water and I am either in the hot sun or my stuffy room, so it's just normal dehydration."

"Did you ever feel that it might be a good idea to drink more, then?" The Mediwitch's tone had a slight edge to it, which was rather appropriate, considering that I had just told her, point blank, that I cared little for my person well-being.

I shrugged. Looking back on it now, at twenty-three, I think part of the self-deprivation bit I did over that summer was grieving for Sirius. I felt that I had killed my own godfather and needed to suffer somehow for it. In a normal home, such an action would have been noticed and stopped quickly, if not at once. But the Dursley's, for all of their trying, ran anything but a normal household. No one noticed that I was not drinking enough water. Only a few years previous, my sole source of nutrition had been one or two bowls of cold, canned soup a day.

"Very well," Vance replied to my nonverbal answer, as she organized the parchments on the table. "I will have to consult with Snape on a few things and come back tomorrow. I do not believe that we need to allow Poppy to know anything, just yet, or anyone outside of the Order."

I remember Remus walking Vance to the front door, ever the polite gentleman. I remained where I had been for most of the night: sitting on the old Black family sofa, folding and refolding the same damn piece of parchment. I honestly did not know what to think that night. Not even twenty four hours previous, I had understood my life. I had been the boy who lived under the stairs and cleaned the house and garden. I had been the boy who lived at a Wizarding school for most of the year and with hateful relatives over the holidays. What was I now? Snape and Vance had both agreed that the testing was not conclusive. Was I the boy who lived with a Dark curse? Was I just the boy who lived had too many Charlie horses to be normal? What was going on?

After Vance left, whether by Apparation or broom, I do not know, Remus returned to the parlour. He walked me to one of the bedrooms, not the once that I shared with Ron and Phineas Nigellus, but one I had never before seen. Like a parent I never had, he quietly tucked me into bed and left a glass of water on the bedside table.

That night, like so many other nights that summer, I had trouble falling asleep. Uniquely, though, this time I was plagued with fear for myself and, admittedly, Snape. I had not forgotten my guilt and pain over Sirius' death, or Cedric's, for that matter, but my own problems, for once, were at the forefront of my mind. This Dark disease that Snape suffered, what was it? Vance had given us such a medical description that I did not understand it. And her cold comfort, telling me I had no degenerative nerve damage, was hardly a comfort at all. Would I still be able to fly a broom? Even if Umbridge's ban could be lifted, would I ever be able to be Seeker on the House team again? Would I need special treatment? Vance and Remus had been so serious. How would this affect my life? Could I still have even a slight chance at defeating Voldemort? Vance said that Snape's hands were affected; did that mean I would not be able to do wand magic anymore?

As these questions plagued me, I eventually found some restless slumber in the early hours of the morning. I had alternating nightmares: some of Voldemort cursing my friends and innocent Muggles, some of Sirius falling through the Archway and Veil, and others of me being removed from Wizarding society.

"I don't want you to be so upset," Remus told me as we sat down for breakfast on my third morning at 12 Grimmauld Place. "You look like you haven't slept for weeks and you aren't eating."

Being a sullen sixteen year old boy, I shrugged and poked my kippers with a fork. They did not move.

"Snape and Vance are coming back, with Dumbledore, tonight."

"What?"

"They want to do one last test, to be absolutely sure of your diagnosis. Then we can decide on a course of action."

"A course of action? What am I, a puppet?" I snapped.

Remus curled his lips in a lupine snarl, despite the waning moon. "Harry, you know better than that. We are trying to help you. We can hardly let you go without medical help."

"Of course not. I have to be the Boy-Who-Lived, don't I?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I had said the wrong thing.

Remus slammed his fork and knife down on the wooden table. "If that is how you really feel, then you wouldn't mind if I left right now."

Watching Remus stalk out of the kitchen, without even cleaning his plate as he usually did, I wanted to call him back and apologize. I did not, though, and I washed his plate and mine, after a few bites of food. Despite Remus' superior cooking, it tasted like dust in my mouth.

That day, Remus lurked in Buckbeak's room, feeding him dead rats and ferrets, and generally avoiding me. I was too embarrassed by my breakfast table outburst to find him and apologize. I made myself a simple sandwich for lunch and one for Remus as well, though he never came downstairs to eat it. I tidied the kitchen and parlour, slightly compulsively and because there was nothing else to do. The fact that Dumbledore, Snape, and Vance were returning to Grimmauld Place that evening gnawed at my stomach and put me into a black mood.

When Snape, Vance, and Dumbledore arrived, Remus and I escorted them to the same parlour. Remus and I had cleaned it as best we could and it looked slightly more presentable that night. We had Ever-Burning candles in the wall sconces and I had found a silver-plated candelabra buried in once of the upstairs rooms, which was now on display with candles of its own. Dumbledore, in robes decorated with silver moons and golden stars, looked more stately than usual. Snape looked about as sullen and put out as I felt. Vance was carrying a bag that seemed to be absolutely stuffed with parchment and potions vials.

Vance fed me potion after potion, scratching down the details of my reactions, as the older men watched worriedly. Finally she murmured a last charm, which was so powerful it literally knocked me to my knees. Luckily, the Blacks, when they still owned the house, believed in luxury and the Persian rug was still several inches thick, cushioning my fall nicely.

"What was that?"

Vance frowned at me for a moment, her eyes exuding pity. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"What is it?" Remus asked, sounding slightly frantic.

"The original diagnosis was correct. Harry is indeed dystonic."

Snape buried his head in his hands, as Remus pulled me into his arms. I embraced Remus as well, searching for some sort of comfort. I still did not know anything about this disease. Nothing in the rather extensive Black library had more than a passing mention of it, and certainly not of the Muggle kind I supposedly had.

"What can we do about it? Will it get worse?"

Vance appeared slightly startled by Remus' sudden questions. "There are some potions and a few charms that may help with the symptoms. We will have to experiment to see what combination will work well for Harry. As for getting worse, I do not know. Wizards usually do not have this kind of dystonia. This is a Muggle sort, perhaps Harry inherited it from his mother or his upbringing had some sort of effect on it. I just don't know. I have read of cases where the Muggle's symptoms worsen over time, but I have also heard that it plateaus. We will have to wait and see."

"What sort of potions will I have to take? What will they do?" I questioned, quietly twisting out of Remus' warm embrace so that I could face the Mediwitch Order member.

"Some will help with keeping your muscles correctly positioned, some will work on your nerves, and some on your brain. The charms will act similarly. In the future, you might need some potions to block the pain. As I said, we will have to experiment."

"What about school? Will I still be able to fly? Get to classes?"

"I do not know about flying. With your legs being affected, it might not be a good idea. If you were, say, fifty or sixty feet above the ground and your legs began to spasm or twist, you could seriously hurt yourself in the fall. If the potions work exceptionally well, though, it might be a possibility. And I imagine you will be able to go to your classes just fine."

I turned to Dumbledore then. "What about the Prophecy, sir? Will I still be able to fight Voldemort? And how? If I can't fly… Well, what if I can't hold my wand? Or turn it correctly? Or duel?"

Dumbledore rested his arm gently on my shoulder. "We will deal with that when we come to it, Harry. At the moment, it does not seem to be affecting your handwork. If it eventually does, we will deal with it then. Though, that does give me an idea."

"An idea?" four voices asked at once.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled so brightly it made me nervous. "Yes, quite an idea at that. I wanted young Harry to work with Severus on his Occlumency again this year. Severus, what would you say to mentoring Harry through his condition as well?"

Snape looked like he just drank a bowl of curdled milk. "Very well, Headmaster."

"Delightful. Why don't you start next week, so it will not be so straining when school begins?"

It may have been phrased as a question, but everyone in the room saw it for what it was: a direct command from the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. As the adults in the room began to discuss other Order business, I could only think of one thing. I would spend the rest of my school career in close proximity to Snape. I would be utterly miserable.

Many thanks to my betas, Danijo and Toasterlicious, but especially to Danijo for helping me work through everything piece by piece.

I will admit that I hold this chapter dear to my heart. I was writing most of this while having a dystonic attack, so much of Harry and Snape's experiences are a reflection of my own.

I am also overjoyed at my reviews. This is very different from any of my other fictions, yet it seems to draw as much (if not more) attention. I can not describe how happy I am that people are interested in this story.

Charlie Quill: (from the first chapter) Oh, I have time. I will always have time. This is what I do to relax.

ShortySC22: I'm blushing. Thank you so much.

LalaithoftheBruinen: I'm happy that you seem to enjoy this fiction as much as Three O'clock in the Morning, even though they are so very different.

DSDragon, kokomocalifornia, juliedecarson, drarrysev, Moghedien17: Thank you.

O. P.'s Girl: I detest it when a simple wave of the wand can diagnose a person. It is never that simple. Given, I have shortened Harry's testing a great deal (it was six years before I was diagnosed properly), but this is a work of fiction and they do have magic on their side.

Tombadgerlock: We will get there when we get there. Understanding Harry's school years is integral to understanding his early adulthood.

SachiAmi: Thank you! I adore receiving reviews such as yours. They make an author's day just a little bit brighter. Harry and Snape's problems are very, very real. As I told O. P.'s Girl, it's never going to be as simple as a swish of a wand and a Latin chant.


	4. Chapter Four

_**Midwinter Sun**_

_Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. – Victor Hugo_

_Fortune favors the brave. - Virgil_

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

The words ran like a mantra through my head, echoing and reverberating like a chant in a cathedral. They were a leftover scrap from my Muggle upbringing, with no irreverence meant. The Dursleys had stopped bringing me to the local church when I was five and the deaconess asked Aunt Petunia why I was dressed in Dudley's old clothes. Still, it left something of an impression on me and in my mind I use 'God' as an invective almost as often as 'Merlin,' and I have lived in this world longer.

I had been staying with Remus at 12 Grimmauld Place for a few weeks. Mostly, it had just been the two of us there, doing our best to ward off the painful ghosts of our pasts. The loneliness and monotony of those weeks were only broken by sporadic visits from Order Aurors. The house seemed hollow and empty without the rowdiness of the Weasley clan and the sibling-like arguments among Order members throughout the first two floors. Days would go by when the only other living things I saw were Buckbeak and Remus. Well before Snape brought August's Wolfsbane potion, he gave me a series of potions to try. I had asked him about charms and Snape snorted at me, rather derisively, and told me that charms were unreliable and liable to fade or be forcibly removed by an enemy. Potions had neither weakness.

The potions were not as bad as I had feared. One was a standard Calming Drought, modified with asphodel, or so Snape told me. Remus was ready to rend Snape limb from limb for giving me that one. It worked better than Dreamless Sleep, but neither Snape nor I had told Remus what I had taken. He thought that I had died, especially when he could smell the asphodel on my breath. The other potions were well beyond my grasp, though Snape attempted to explain them to Remus and me, with mixed results. Most of the modified Calming Droughts were too strong for me, even when he mixed in moonstone to counteract the asphodel. When he added ginger and lionfish spines, it made me jittery and worsened my condition.

Remus spent weeks looking as though he were on his last legs. Between the full moon and looking after me, the poor man was lucky to catch five or six hours of sleep every night. Whenever I took a new potion, he insisted upon sitting it out with me, so that if something went awry, he could contact Snape immediately.

Nearing the end of the third week of August, we finally found a potion that did not put me to sleep or give me spasms. It was shockingly similar to what Snape himself took. It was Ruhiger's Serum mixed with some Pepper-Up in a base of hellebore and sage. It tasted awful, but it made all of our lives much easier, and I was not about to be shown up by Snape. He also gave me a few small vials of the Drought of Peace and a very concentrated form of a Spanish calming serum, "in case of an emergency," whatever that meant.

Twice a day I drank the mix. Snape had called it a Hellebore Tonic. I honestly did not care. It was a nuisance to need to take it with breakfast and supper, though, and I worried as to what I would do during my time at Hogwarts. People would eventually become suspicious if they saw me drinking from a strange flask everyday, especially with our fourth year still burned into our collective memory.

And that day, the day after the full moon, Remus sat with me at the kitchen table, plying me heavily with mint and chamomile tea while he guzzled coffee in a slightly pitiful attempt to remain awake. Ron and Hermione were coming to Grimmauld Place a little before noon. The next day, the thirtieth, we would collect our school supplies in Diagon Alley. But they did not know that anything unusual happened that summer. Molly and Arthur did; they had been dutifully warned of my limitations, but nothing had been told to my two best friends.

When Ron tumbled out of the fireplace, quickly followed by Hermione, I could actually feel my muscles tighten. It is a hard feeling to explain, but the best description I can give is that of a heightened fight-or-flight response. I felt my leg twist in a most unnatural way, but tried to ignore it as best I could. I had planned on rising and greeting my friends when they arrived, but, with this new development, I forewent the plan and remained seated. I tried to smile at them.

Hermione, her bushy hair liberally littered with soot, saw Remus' closed face and my, according to her at a later date, nervous expression and she realized that something was wrong. Her letters that summer, the few that she had written, were light and casual, a blatant attempt to cheer me, despite the events of the spring. She knew that I had returned to Grimmauld Place and had sent me a small knit blanket which, not unsurprisingly, was of a finer skill than the blobby caps the house elves had dutifully avoided.

Ron, on the other hand, was as oblivious as a plank of wood, a fact for which I was incredibly thankful. He saw my pitiful cup of chamomile tea, appearing to be confused for a moment, but he was quickly distracted by some toast, left over from our early breakfast. His birthday gift had been a small chess set. Remus and I had whiled away a few afternoons with it and the pieces were adapting well to my rather inept leadership. They were a bit suspicious of Remus, for all that he played with them as often as I had. I had begun to suspect that there was a magic on it that let them know who their owner was and who was merely borrowing it for a few games.

As my red-haired friend managed to simultaneously consume the rest of our toast, coating said toast thickly with marmalade, and search the kitchen for pumpkin juice, Hermione sat beside me at the table. She levelled me with a glare, not terribly unlike the one she gave me back in second year when she learned that I was a Parselmouth and never told anyone. Once again, I felt slightly like a deer in the headlights, but Remus rested his hand on my shoulder and I allowed myself to relax slightly into him. He might be an exhausted werewolf, but he was on my side and was prepared to support me. Ron, thoughtfully, gave Hermione a cup of pumpkin juice before joining us at the table.

"Harry, it's good to see you," Hermione said, slightly hesitantly, no doubt remembering my fits of temper during the previous year.

I tried to force a smile, but my mind was running ahead of me. It had lost its previous chanting and was now displaying, quite vividly, all of the terrible things that could happen that day: Hermione knowing more than was good for her (as per usual) and being horrified at my condition; Ron knowing only the Wizarding rumours and being equally horrified; Ron being furious at being left out of all of this, as he had during the Triwizard Tournament. In the back of my head, I knew that none of this would happen. Hermione and Ron had been my best friends for five years, through Basilisks, Death Eaters, possessed teachers, just plain evil teachers, OWLs, dragons, and everything else. For Merlin's sake, Ron had been trapped underwater for me in our fourth year and he was merely angry that I had waited to rescue Gabrielle before returning to the surface.

Remus touched the back of my neck lightly, bringing me back to the world of Grimmauld Place's kitchen. "Shh," he whispered. "Calm down. They'll accept you just fine, Harry. Now I'm going to leave you to talk to them."

Frowning slightly, Hermione watched Remus leave the room. "What's going on? Why didn't we meet you at the Leaky Cauldron this year?"

"Yeah, mate, why did you have to come back here? I would have thought it was the last place you wanted to be." Hermione looked as though she might like to smack Ron upside the head for that particular comment, but she remained dutifully silent and just waited for my answer.

"Well, something came up around my birthday, actually," I opened, hesitantly.

"Did you have another vision? I told you to practice your Occlumency!"

I raised a hand to forestall any more comments Hermione had. She might have been one of my best friends and the smartest girl I knew, but she needed to be quiet if I was going to explain everything correctly.

"Remus took me to London for my birthday," I continued. There was the slightest bend of Hermione's eyebrow when I did not say 'Professor Lupin' and Ron had stopped eating in order to better hear me. "We encountered some difficulty there. The next day, he brought Snape to Surrey." Ron's eyes narrowed ever so slightly and Hermione appeared ready to reprimand me, though she held back the words. "The Order Mediwitch looked me over. Apparently, I have something called dystonia."

For once, Hermione's face was blank. I had found something about which she had not read, nor had she, judging from her pure lack of facial expression, even heard of it. Ron, on the other hand, had quite clearly heard of it and understood the ramifications of the Boy-Who-Lived suffering from such a dreadfully Dark disorder. His face flushed and created an interesting contrast with his freckles, his hair and the orange marmalade that was stuck to his chin.

"Voldemort?" he ground out.

I shook my head and shrugged. "We don't know. They don't think so. They think I've got the Muggle sort, which is really rare – rarer than the Wizarding kind anyway. Voldemort might have, you know, made it worse, maybe. But they don't think he did it, totally."

"Dystonia?" Hermione asked. She paused for a moment. "Dys… Tonia… It affects your muscles?"

I nodded. "Mostly my legs." I pushed my chair out from the table and showed them my right leg, grateful that neither of them had taken the news as badly as I had feared. "But Mediwitch Vance warned me that I've only got the preliminary symptoms and with the Muggle sort I have, it might affect more than just my legs."

Hermione worried her lower lip, as she always did when she came across a problem she could not immediately solve. It was slightly unnerving that I had seen her stare at Arithmancy problems in the same manner.

"Will you be able to ride a broom?" Ron asked quickly.

Once again, I shrugged. "It depends. I might, I might not. Dumbledore isn't even sure that he can lift Umbridge's ban, anyway."

"What do you mean, it depends? It depends on what?"

"Snape has been making me potions, trying to find out what will help me and what won't. If he can find a combination that really and truly works, then I might be able to ride a broom again. But if the dystonia worsens or we can not find a good combination, then I might not be able to ride a broom again."

"Snape? Why is Snape brewing your potions? Shouldn't St. Mungo's, or at least a certified Mediwizard Potions Master be doing it?" Hermione asked, slightly concerned.

"No. Can you imagine what would happen if the Wizarding world found out that the Boy-Who-Lived had dystonia? In the Muggle world, it's just a strange muscle problem. In the magical world, it's linked to the Darkest of Dark Spells. It's most commonly associated with the Cruciatus Curse, Hermione. The Cruciatus Curse! Besides, we can't afford to let the Death Eaters have an advantage. They could skew the battlefield in their favour by specifically attacking in ways I couldn't fight. Right now, any Cruciatus I suffer will worsen the dystonia. We can't afford that."

Hermione's face went as white as a sheet and Ron looked more than a little green around the gills. I thought that perhaps I should not have phrased my response in such a manner. I mentally winced. They were probably associating me with Neville's poor parents. Lovely.

"Oh, Merlin, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed.

That was when I physically winced. Hermione did not need to say it like that. Looking back now, I know – and, to an extent, I knew then – that Hermione, the sweet girl that she is, did not mean her exclamation in the manner I interpreted it, but it still hurt. I knew I was sick and I knew I was not going to recover. Remus and Snape and Vance had told me as much. I just needed to learn to function. Hermione coming to this sudden realization was not going to help my transition from fully functioning solider-to-be to surviving invalid.

"So," I began, trying to break the momentary silence. "How did you two spend your summers, now that we've covered mine?"

The two exchanged glances. Ah, had they finally found that they both wanted each other in a romantic sense? No, no they had not. They were exchanging glances over my change in topic, not over their love lives.

"Well, Hermione spent the last two weeks at the Burrow," Ron explained. "We were hoping you could join us, but I guess now we know why not."

I shrugged again, still feeling slightly uncomfortable about the whole situation, and it was clear that my friends were as well. I had spent nearly a month cooped up in my late godfather's old house, with only Remus, Buckbeak, Snape, and the occasional Auror for company. My problem was known to everyone and they always knew more about it than I did. Suddenly I was in a place where I was spending time with two of my favourite people in the world and it felt like we were awkward first years on the Hogwarts Express all over again. I began to seriously dread the Welcoming Feast at Hogwarts.

"We had a great Quiddi–" Ron's sentence was cut off as Hermione not so subtly elbowed him in the ribs. He scowled at her – well, as much as Ron would scowl at Hermione, anyway – and rubbed his tender ribs.

"Really, Harry how are you doing?" Hermione asked earnestly. "Is there anything we can do to help you at all?"

I realized that Hermione did not want Ron to tell me all about Quidditch at the Burrow when I could not be there and might never be able to ride a broom again. Part of me was pleased that she cared so much and part of me was peeved that she thought I could not handle being told about a friendly Quidditch match. "I'm fine. It's not like I'm about to drop dead at the table." Judging by Hermione's face, that was not a good thing to say, though Ron grinned at me for it. "Now, let Ron tell me the story."

The rest of the day continued in a similar fashion. We overcame the initial awkwardness, though there were some rough moments, especially when I slipped on the stairs, showing them to their bedrooms, and again at dinner when I had to take the Hellebore Tonic. Hermione had wanted to look at it and Ron wanted to know why I was willing to take something that Snape had concocted. When I lost my temper at them, they were both rather shocked, even more so when Remus came down to the kitchen and told them to leave me alone if they were only planning on bothering me for the rest of the night.

August thirtieth dawned in London dull and early. We Flooed to Diagon Alley with Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Remus. We went to all of the usual stops – Flourish and Blotts, the Apothecary, Quality Quidditch Supply, the Magical Menagerie (for pet treats and tonics) – and stopped at Florean Fortescue's for ice cream. Remus took special care to walk beside me, in a casual fashion, and catch my elbow if I faltered or pay for my items if my hands shook. Not a single witch or wizard would have chanced to think that something was wrong with the Boy-Who-Lived.

While Hermione and Ron took Ginny into the Magical Menagerie to look at the pets, Remus and I went to Madame Malkin's for some new robes. Madame Malkin fussed over me, saying that my current school robes would do for another year, as they were skimming the tops of my trainers, but I, as prompted by my three mentors in dystonia, insisted on buying newer, longer robes. It had been Vance's idea, originally, inspired by Snape swooping about the house like an overgrown bat. We had been trying to find a way to hide my condition from the rest of the school and she suggested that dramatic, draping robes could hide my disability, much as Dudley's hand-me-downs had hid them from Remus over the summer. As they were uniform, my robes were not as concealing as Snape's infamous attire, but, as Madame Malkin measured and grumbled and cut, I realized that they might help.

If I was nervous telling Hermione and Ron the truth of what was happening, I did not stand a chance at letting Hogwarts and the rest of Wizarding Britain know. I was struggling to deal with the issue on my own and coming to grips with the idea that my life might not entirely be in my hands (or Dumbledore's or Voldemort's) anymore. After speaking at some length with Remus, it seemed that my dream of becoming an Auror grew more unlikely by the minute. I would be a liability on the field, especially since a Dark curse might affect me even more than the next person. Unless someone found a cure in the next two years, which was highly unlikely, it was suggested that I find another career path. Supposedly, Snape was to help me with that, as part of his program with me during the year. I found it rather unlikely that we would find such even footing as to sit down to a cup of tea and quiet discussion after a nice evening of Occlumency lessons.

But I realized when I left the robe shop and Hermione took up her post on my left and Ron on my right, that I would make it through my sixth year, come what may.


	5. Chapter Five

_**Midwinter Sun**_

_Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. – Victor Hugo_

_My name is Inigo Montoya. You kill my father. Prepare to die. – William Goldman_

To say that, by November, I wanted to kill Snape was an understatement of the grandest proportions. I wanted to kill him, to hang his head from the Astronomy Tower, and to hang the rest of his body, by his toe nails, on the Quidditch Pitch, using Filch's infamous, but unused chains. I had it all planned, too. I had had nearly three months to devise his death and desecration.

And every week, Snape would laugh at me and find a flaw in my plans.

I met him twice a week. One would be for my weekly "detention" which would be randomly assigned. It drove me (and Hermione, who devised our study schedules) batty because I could never make any plans. Snape would always point out that I was not supposed to be straining myself and therefore should not be making extensive plans. But, then, he would also tell me that my grades were abysmal and I should be working harder, so I tended not to listen to him.

The sessions were frustrating. I was still having trouble with my Occlumency. And I did not want to talk about my dystonia, but, lucky me, nor did Snape. During the evenings in which he was supposed to mentor me, I sat at a table doing my homework or studying and Snape sat at his desk, grading papers. In September, he explained meditation to me, in the hopes that it would help with both my Occlumency and my dystonia (and might possibly shut me up for a while), but neither worked particularly well. I did not do well simply sitting and being. My mind would be running in another direction as soon as I closed my eyes. I suppose that comes from having to entertain myself as a child when I was locked in the cupboard. If I paused to think I would have despaired, but now I had an overdeveloped imagination and far too much curiosity for my own good. The only thing that pleased me was that no one had noticed my recent problems so I could often ignore them as much as was possible.

Then one night in mid-November, it all changed. I had had a particularly infuriating Occlumency session with Snape, one that had left me breathless and in tears, kneeling on the cold dungeon floors. I had spent nearly half an hour living and reliving some of my worst memories: Cedric's death, Sirius' death, being three and locked in the cupboard without my Blanky, Ron turning on me in my fourth year, being chased up a tree by Ripper, nearly dying in my first year by touching Quirrel. It left me physically and mentally exhausted. Snape and I discovered that I had a mental block: when he raised the memory of Sirius falling, I could not repel him. I needed to work on it, but it was laborious work.

I stumbled into the corridor, my dystonia worsened by the emotional turmoil brought on by my memories. Once again, I was thankful that Remus had thought to find me overly long robes. The old saying was indeed true: robes may hide a myriad of sins. As I made my way to the winding stairs that lead to Gryffindor Tower, I was pulled into an unused dungeon room by an assailant I did not see until it was too late. I stumbled and fell on my rump. I was not pleased; now I had bruises on my knees and my arse.

I turned and took in the room. It was clearly made to be a quiet study room for the Slytherins. It was decorated in House colours, with several private desks and some tables with matching chairs. The wall sconces were dimly lit, but the hearth was cold and empty. And standing in front of me was a very worried looking Blaise Zambini.

Blaise was one of the most unobtrusive Slytherins I had ever met. I would not call him shy, but he did not spend time with Malfoy or the other Death Eater children. According to Hermione, he spent much of his time with Ravenclaws and had arranged his elective classes with that House. I never asked Hermione how or why she knew that. His Italian ancestry was as clear on his face as it was in his name. He had the dark hair and olive skin of his father's country, but his eyes were a bright grey, not entirely unlike my late godfather's. He was the only other boy in my year to be shorter than many of the girls, but he was still taller than me by a good few inches. But I had never seen such a look of worry and pity decorate his face.

After closing and warding the door, he turned to me. If I had not been so exhausted, I probably would have put up a fight, demanding why he was locking me in an abandoned room alone with him. But I did not.

"Harry," his voice was low, nearly a whisper, but urgent and worried nonetheless. "Harry, are you okay?"

I frowned at him. "I'm as tired as all Hell and now I have bruises on my knees AND my arse. Do you think I'm okay?"

Then, to my utter shock, Blaise helped me into a chair. "I'm so sorry! I didn't even think of that!" he told me, in that same low voice, which was beginning to make me nervous. "I just needed – I needed to be able to talk to you. Alone."

I raised an eyebrow, a habit of Snape's that I was fast adopting as my own. It made more seem more intelligent than my traditional 'er?' ever did.

Kneeling by my chair, Blaise rested his arm across my leg, as though protecting me from an unseen predator. "I know… What's been going on. In Snape's office."

To say that I was shell-shocked by this would be accurate. To say that I was frightened that a Slytherin knew my secret would also be accurate. It would be ever more accurate to say that I was scared half out of my wits and nearly ready to soil myself. My life was over. Literally. If Zambini told Malfoy, Malfoy would tell his father or mother or aunt or uncle or cousin, the Malfoy relative would tell Voldemort, and then Voldemort would kill me and slowly torture Snape to death.

"Don't be so surprised," Blaise told me gently, squeezing my knee comfortingly. "Draco has walked in on you several times and he isn't one to keep such secrets to himself."

I made a small choking noise. I was going to die. And the Wizarding world would be plunged into darkness. The Muggles, even the good non-Dursley ones, would be rounded up and routinely exterminated. Half-breeds and mixed bloods would be killed or isolated. The world was going to end because Draco needed help with his "_Stink Sap and Veritaserum: Compare and Contrast_."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I could not answer him. I could barely breathe. I repeated the small choking sound.

"Oh, Harry." Blaise reached up and grasped my shoulder. "I'm not trying to judge you. This isn't your fault. No matter how much you might think it is, it is not your fault. It's Professor Snape's fault and that's that. Talking to me about it might make you feel better."

I thought that Blaise was finally off his rocker. He had gone barking mad. And, as a Slytherin, no one had noticed until he locked up the Boy-Who-Lived in a dungeon room. Damn it! Where was my wand? Damn it, again! It had been loosely in my pocket; no doubt, it was probably lying in the stone corridor, waiting for my return.

Suddenly, Blaise pulled back away from me, removing all body contact, and took a nearby chair for himself. "I'm so sorry. I suppose holding you like that was the bloody stupidest thing I could have done. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. When you left Snape's office, you looked like you'd been through a whirlwind while riding lightning."

I shrugged. "It was a hard day. Even if it's Remedial Potions, it still isn't my best subject." Perhaps if I stuck to the lie, he'd believe it.

Blaise frowned, marring his handsome face. "You don't need to lie to me."

"I'm not lying," I snapped. "You're the freak who dragged me out of the corridor, into a silent and warded room, and then started interrogating me!"

The frown became a scowl. "I'm trying to help you, Potter! The Slytherin Common Room is full of stories and no one will openly doubt the word of a Malfoy, not in that group. It's only a matter of time before the rest of the school finds out."

"Merlin! What am I going to do?"

Blaise very tentatively leaned forward and grasped my forearms in a gesture of friendship and support. "You can stop?"

"Stop?" I gasped. I could not do that. Too many lives were in the balance. I needed this skill. My right leg started to shake slightly. I crossed my legs in the hope that it would stop. The hope was in vain, but it did make the tremble less noticeable.

Nodding, Blaise continued. "You don't have to do this, Harry. I know he hates you and you need good grades, but… Sweet Merlin, ask old McGonagall for help!"

"McGonagall can't help me," I said, confused. How would the Animagus be able to teach me Occlumency?

"She can make this stop," Blaise pointed out. "She can keep Snape from giving you all of these detentions. And if she can't, she's Deputy Headmistress so she can go to Dumbledore. He can stop this."

I was still very confused. "But Dumbledore knows about this. He's the one who conned me into doing it again after last year."

"Dumbledore knows?" The blood seemed to drain from Blaise's face, Mediterranean complexion or not. "He knows- he encouraged-" He seemed to choke on the words.

I frowned. "Why are you so upset about this?"

"Why wouldn't I be upset?" Damn Slytherins and their mercurial emotions. Blaise had gone from horrified to offended in the few seconds it took me to ask a question.

"I don't see how this pertains to you." I narrowed my eyes. "Is this because of the whole Boy-Who-Lived garbage? If it is, you're going to learn-"

I did not have to finish that sentence: Blaise raised his hands as though to protest his innocence. "I think it's happening because you are the Boy-Who-Lived. But you're another student; a fellow student. Even if this were, Merlin, that Creevey brat, I would still be worried."

"It's happening because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived? What the bloody Hell are you talking about Zambini? This sort of thing just happens… It isn't because of who you are or aren't."

"Do you mind if I touch you, Harry?"

"What the bloody- As long as you aren't a human Portkey, I don't care. You touched me earlier, didn't you?"

Without any clear warning, Blaise pulled me into a hug. Completely startled, I just froze; unsure of what to do when a relative stranger did what only devoted guardians – Sirius, Remus, and Mrs. Weasley – had done for me.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Blaise murmured. "But it isn't just something that happens. I can't believe Dumbledore is… encouraging this…"

I wriggled my way out of his arms. "I think there… Just what do you think is going on in Snape's office?"

Blaise blushed a delightful cherry red. "Well… Er, to listen to Draco tell it, you're doing it willingly, but I thought that you two… you hate each other… I mean, if it is willing and everything, I'm sorry for the mess I'm making of everything… But you seem to… I can't imagine that…"

"Out with it!"

"Draco says that he's walked in on you two, you kneeling between Snape's legs, panting for it." This shocking statement was addressed to Blaise's robe-covered knees and it seemed to me that his blush deepened. "I've seen how he treats you in class, Harry. Even this year – and last year, especially – he treats you like shite. He insults your family, your House, your intelligence – anything you might have pride in. I can imagine you wanting an affair with him, but you are ambitious for a Gryffindor and he's crafty, even for a Slytherin."

I gaped at my classmate. "Slytherin House thinks that I'm giving Snape sexual favours in exchange for grades?"

Blaise continued staring at his knees. "Well, even though you're down here twice a week, your skills aren't improving. I just… It isn't above a Death Eater to con another into sex."

"And you think that he's molesting me."

Blaise finally looked up at me and nodded slowly.

I buried my face in my hands. "This is absurd. Completely absurd."

"Then there are no sexual favours?"

"Draco Malfoy is a perverted prat."

"While I couldn't agree more… Merlin, I feel like an idiot."

"Don't. It's- Malfoy is a pervert."

Blaise nodded. "Then why are you coming down to the dungeons so often?"

"Remedial Potions."

"Don't give me that. I'm not stupid. And neither are you. If you were as bad as Longbottom, I might believe you, but you aren't. If you were having twice weekly tutorials, then you would not be doing so badly in Potions."

I uncrossed my legs. "Maybe I am that stupid. Potions is a difficult subject."

"Um… Harry?"

"What?" I snapped. Then I realized that he was staring at my leg, which was still shaking. Suddenly, I had never been so embarrassed as I was at that moment. I honestly wanted to just disappear. The slight fear and total shock that registered in the Slytherin's eyes was more than a little horrifying, to me. This is what I had wanted to avoid. Now a relative stranger from a Rival House knew my secret. For all I knew, his family might have been nearly as involved with Voldemort as the Malfoys. "Shit."

Blaise looked up at me, concern mixing with the shock and fear. "Harry, what's going on?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

He pressed his hand to my knee. "I don't think this is nothing."

My leg started shaking all the worse. I was close to having a panic attack. I was in a locked, warded, and silenced room with a potential enemy and in no state to be able to do anything about it. And this had never happened to my leg before. I realized then why Snape had given me those vials of serums, but like the fool I was, I had left them in the bottom of my trunk in Gryffindor Tower. I tried to stand, but the pressure and weight only made things worse than they already were. I fell back into the chair.

"What's happening?"

"N-nothing."

He returned his hand to its previous position. "Look, I'm not an idiot; don't treat me like one. This isn't just nothing." He saw the fear in my eyes. "And don't you be an idiot, either. If something is wrong, I won't just blab it to the whole of Slytherin House. I'm not Malfoy or Parkinson and I'm not a Death Eater. Not every Slytherin is evil. I only want to help: isn't that why I dragged you in here in the first place?"

I was shocked to notice that Blaise's touch was soothing. My leg was also beginning to hurt from the constant trembling. It was shocking; nearly as shocking as it had been when I first began to shake. If it were helped with something as simple as human touch – something I was sure Ron or Hermione would be pleased to provide – and I could take a calming serum, this might not be as terrible and earth-shattering a symptom as I had originally thought. It still hurt, though.

And before I could answer Blaise's question, his dark head shot up in alarm, like a rabbit who has caught the scent of a wolf.

"What is it?" I asked worriedly.

Then I felt Blaise's wards drop suddenly and the door to the small room opened, revealing Snape, who looked none too pleased. He eyed Blaise's hand on my leg suspiciously. He had spent enough time in my mind to know that I was not friendly with this Slytherin boy. "Just what is going on here?"

Bravely, Blaise stood, half in front of me as if to protect me from his big, scary Head of House, as if I did not spend time alone with the man. "I was just talking to Harry, sir. Nothing important."

Snape scowled at him. "Nothing important? It isn't important when you malign the name of your Head of House? Do not think that I have not ways to hear things in my own dungeons, Mr. Zambini." He motioned to an empty portrait frame. "Paracelsus decided to warn me when you began your suggestion of my… sexual deviancy. I can only imagine what else you have discussed since Paracelsus' departure."

Blaise had the decency to blush, a rush of burgundy to his dark cheeks. "I was only trying to help Harry, sir. Something seems to be wrong." A classic Slytherin, Blaise knew that Snape had more information on me – and he was willing to use his professor to get at it.

A dark eyebrow rose when Blaise used my first name. "I don't believe that is any of your business, Zambini. Return to the Common Room. Ten points for insulting a teacher and report to Filch for detention. For the next week."

Blaise paled to a surprising white. Clearly, Snape usually did not remove points from his own House, even when snooping Gryffindors were not around to hear about it. He straightened his robe and quickly walked out of the room, too dignified to run and too embarrassed to defy Snape again that night.

Then Snape looked at me sharply. "You should know better than to trust a Slytherin, Potter. We always have our own agenda."

As he left in a swirl of black robes, I understood what he meant. Even if Blaise was not evil or a Death Eater, he was still a Slytherin. But Snape did not know that I was nearly a Slytherin myself.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and to my beta, Danijo, who listens to me moan and groan about everything and my other beta, Toasterlicious, who is becoming used to random, sporadic e-mails.

Reviewers:

Ethlele Sylvia: Thank you. I try.

JuliedeCarson, Tombadgerlock, avidreader, starangel2106: Thank you!

Padawan Jan-AQ: Thank you so much for the praise. There will be slash, but in the distant future. This focuses on Harry, and he has enough to deal with at the moment without giving him a disastrous love life. Or a loved one a disastrous love life.

Quoth the Raven: Nevermore. Okay, my childishness aside, yes, life sucks when you have a disability like this. Part of the reason I'm writing it is to have others understand what it's like. I've had dystonia since I was six and it can make life miserable (not mention difficult). I'm happy you like the fiction.


	6. Chapter Six

_**Midwinter Sun**_

_Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. – Victor Hugo_

_A leader is a dealer in hope. – Napoleon Bonaparte_

That end of autumn and beginning of winter in 1996 was a strange time. I shrank away from many of my acquaintances and old habits. It was not a conscious choice on my part, I admit, but it happened none the less.

I had declined position as Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor House, something that angered most of the House. They lost their star seeker. When I announced that I would not be playing Quidditch in my seventh year, either, Seamus stopped speaking to me for a week, even when we bumped into each other in the showers. Malfoy taunted me endlessly, making it out that I had refused the position out of fear rather than choice. I would always point out that I was still banned from Quidditch, but no one ever seemed to really listen to what I said.

I had never realized how active Gryffindors were until I had to limit my own activity. It was awkward during the first major snowfall of the year when Dean and Neville told me to go with them for a Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw snowball fight. I was forced to decline and was quite embarrassed by the whole situation. That morning I had participated in a Transfiguration practical with Professor McGonagall and had fought in the Duelling Club the previous night. I was exhausted and ready for bed during lunch. The thought of going outside into cold, wet snow was a miserable one indeed. But my peers did not understand. They figured that I would want to get outside since the Quidditch ban had so limited my activities. It was not until Ron quickly lied and asked me if I had seen Madame Pomfrey about a fever that the boys stopped nagging me. They quietly slipped outside, letting me "sleep off my fever." It was very hard, though, to sit at the window of the dorm room and watch my friends below, rolling in the wet snow like overexcited puppies, and know that I could not join them. It was bad enough that I had a Destiny and visions to set me apart from my peers; I did not need a disability to permanently separate us.

The other major problem that year was our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Darius Alexander. As far as I could tell, he was not trying to kill me or betray me to my enemies, both of which were very good things and improvements upon my former professors, other than Remus. A little voice in the back of my head cautioned that I had thought the same of Barty Crouch, Jr., but I ignored that bit of paranoia as best I could. I had enough people out for my lifeblood; I did not need to make them up in my head. No, it was the man himself who was the problem. More accurately, it was my reaction to him that was the problem. Professor Alexander was handsome. He was probably in his early thirties, younger than Remus, and kind. He had ragged dark hair that often fell into his hazel eyes and a winning smile. He would often tell us anecdotes in class about his experiences in the field as an international Auror. His teeth were quite straight and white against his tanned skin. The problem was that I noticed this. And I noticed this as much as I had noticed Cho, though not as much as Ron had noticed Fleur. It was confusing, being attracted to my male teacher and having been attracted to a female classmate.

I did not tell anyone. And this little secret, my little crush on Professor Alexander, drove me to work harder on my Occlumency. The last thing I needed was to give more fuel to Snape's hateful fire. I did not want my desire for another man to be known because I botched a simple healing potion. I spent my Defence classes trying not to watch the professor too closely and nearly receiving detentions for not paying attention. Luckily, I do not blush easily. I was also devoted to the subject, considering that my life literally depended upon it, and therefore my grades for the class did not drop. Had he been a professor in any other subject, I have no doubt that I would have been so unduly distracted by him that my grades would have suffered. But it was still my secret and it often troubled me that year.

Ron and Hermione tried to help me as best they could, in their own way. Hermione received a pass from Dumbledore to research the Restricted Section for me. I won't say that we did not abuse the privilege of the pass, trying to learn any defence tactics that we could find, but sometimes I wanted to march up to Dumbledore's office and demand that he take the pass away from my friend. For all that she wanted to help, she was frustrating. She did not understand that I did not want to talk about "my problems" or discuss them in the Common Room.

I also knew that she and Ron talked about me late at night. I was not so observant as to notice it on my own, but after Neville came to me one night in October, asking what was wrong that Hermione and Ron were talking about it in whispers and would not tell him, despite his membership in the DA, I listened. Late at night, when I buried myself in books on the Darkest spells and Buddhist meditation, and early in the morning, when I practiced the meditation or went to search out the Room of Requirement to cast the spells, times when they knew I would not join the conversation, that was when they talked.

They thought that I did not realize and, now that I have a few years distance, I admit that I would not have picked up on the tension and worry had Neville not asked me questions about it. I understood that they were only trying to be helpful, no matter how annoying it was. I also knew that they were my only peers I had trusted with my secret and there was a reason for that. But I did have a more than passing desire to yell at them to shut their mouths, that it was not any of their business.

One morning, particularly frustrated by my life in general and Snape in particular, I woke before anyone else in the dorm, my legs aching. I took a small sip from a vial containing a mixture of a Draught of Peace and a mild pain killing potion. The potions I kept in the drawer nearest my bed, always locked with some of the most complicated charms I could perform and then cast over with a spell similar to the Disillusionment Charm so no one would noticed all of the magic on it, were delicate jewel colours. I knew them by feel by the time winter began decorating the grounds with the grey hoarfrost. They were all dangerous, even my daily Hellebore Tonic could be fatal if I took too large a dose. The calming serums and Draughts of Peace were both addictive and potential poisons. I freely admit that I was paranoid about them when I kept them in my dorm. Even now, as an adult with my own quarters in the castle, I am nervous about them. They make me nervous and I don't like to take them, even when I need them.

I grabbed a cushion off of one of the armchairs and sat in front of the cheery Common Room fire, trying to meditation away my woes. As I concentrated on regulating my breathing and finding a centre, I heard Ron come down the stairs behind me. He sat on the crimson sofa behind me.

After about five minutes, I realised that I would never be able to centre myself with Ron's eyes boring into my back. I sighed and spun around on the cushion so I could look at my best friend. "What is it?"

Ron frowned at me, biting his lower lip as he tried to think of the right words to say. "How do you do it?"

"How do I do what?"

"This," Ron said, waving his arm in my general direction. "I saw you take those potions when you woke up. How do you do this every day? I've seen you slip off to the bathroom to take them during the day and then take more to sleep at night. It's insane that you have to do this. I mean, it's bad that you have to go out there and kill You-Know-Who – but then you have all of this to deal with! I mean, I have trouble doing the day-to-day and I'm just your average wizard."

I shrugged. "I don't really have any other options, Ron."

"But–" My friend seemed to flounder helplessly for a moment, lost in what was happening. "Hermione –"

I shifted on my cushion, trying to find a comfortable position but realizing, at the same time, that it was impossible. A bit nervously, I began to play with the tassels. "Hermione what, Ron?"

He sighed. "She found these books in the Restricted Section, ones on… your problem."

Ron did not like to call my dystonia by its true name, much as he feared saying Voldemort's name. In the Wizarding world, the only world he knew, it had an invariable connection to the Dark, much as Healer Vance had told me over in August. Hermione was desperately trying to break Ron's little affectation, but I didn't. I didn't really want to talk about it in the first place, so it didn't matter if my friend was willing to talk about it or not. Hermione, on the other hand, wanted to discuss it to death, at least twice a week.

"I know," I told him heavily "I've read them. She's been pitching them at me since September, if you can't remember. Even Dean thinks I'm odd at this point, hiding books under my bed."

"Not those books." Ron's voice dropped to a near whisper, as though he were embarrassed, or, perhaps, scared. "Other ones."

"Other books?"

He nodded slowly. "She nearly made me promise not to tell you... But I don't know… I mean, your life is hard enough at this point. You don't need us keeping secrets from you now."

Realising that Ron was being deadly serious, something fairly unusual for my red haired friend, I pulled my knees to my chest. "What sort of books?"

"Mostly Dark Arts books; she's been reading them only in the library so Madame Pince doesn't think she's going Dark. You know how some people are getting a little fanatical… She doesn't want to get caught in the crossfire if the public turns on us again."

I noted his use of the word "us" rather than "you" and it cheered me a bit. With Ron's Quidditch schedule, my "detentions" with Snape, and Hermione's apparent desire to read the entire Hogwarts library before seventh year, we had not had as much time together in our sixth year as we had had in previous years. It lifted my spirits that Ron still thought of the three of us as a trio of friends. "And?"

"Well, it isn't good. You might not want to tell anyone you have it."

I snorted, as if I were about to announce everything to the Great Hall at breakfast that morning. "Why would I – Wait. What do you mean by that?"

Ron chewed his lower lip for a moment. "You know how Vance told you that it's Dark?" He waited for my nod. "That really isn't the half of it… I… There's history with it, with wizards. Hermione's been doing everything she can to find information. It's not only Dark wizards who get it… But most Light wizards who get it, they go Dark. Fast."

"Are you saying that you think I'm going to be the next Voldemort?"

He flinched at the name. "I don't. But do you remember how everyone thought you were crazy after fourth year? And how you were harassed when people thought you were dating Hermione? Or how everyone thought you were the Heir of Slytherin because you're a Parselmouth?"

"Yeah," I replied noncommittally.

"This could be worse. We know that the Daily Prophet can make you look bad. I don't want to imagine what it would do if they thought you might be going Dark."

My heart beat picked up at bit and I could feel it in my chest. "But… I have to defeat Voldemort." That might have been one of the stupidest things I have ever said, and a very stupid reason for the Wizarding public not to turn on me, but it was the first thing that came to my head. I had been brooding on the topic of the prophecy since Dumbledore told me the previous year.

"That makes you powerful," Ron told me solemnly. "And it also makes you dangerous. If you can do what Dumbledore can't and they think you might go Dark, there's no telling what you might do."

"And Hermione's books say all of this?"

Ron shook his head and tried to scowl at me, clearly upset that I was not taking his cautions terribly seriously. "Harry, I can connect the dots. Almost everyone in my family has worked in the Ministry at one point or another, even Bill and Charlie when they were right out of school. I like to think that I know a bit about how all of this works. If the Ministry honestly thinks you're dangerous, they're going to do a bit more than just call you crazy in the papers."

"What would they do, Ron? Are the going to throw me into Azkaban for being sick? Are they going to confine me to a ward in St. Mungo's? Are they going to exile me from the country? I've done plenty of stupid, reckless, illegal things already: I killed Quirrel, you and I were caught with an Obliviated professor, we illegally took your dad's car, I blew up my aunt, I attacked people in the Ministry! They haven't done anything yet."

"This is why I wanted to tell you even though Hermione doesn't!" I had the feeling that if it were not for our classmates blissfully sleeping nearby, Ron would have been shouting at me. "We aren't kids anymore. I realised that last spring… We could have died in the ministry, Harry. This isn't about saving the school or proving that Snape is the bad guy or even making sure that you don't die in Defence Against the Dark Arts. This is bigger. I mean, you've got the prophecy and all… But if we do something wrong, it might not be Voldemort that dies."

Hearing my own private fears voiced by someone else was almost too much to take. I was afraid of the same things Ron was, but I had not wanted to admit it. I knew that there were more dangers for me now, that it was not as simple as I thought it was when we were still little first years. Half of me was angry that I had to deal with all of this at sixteen, but I forced myself to bite my lip. It was not Ron's fault that I was a child of prophecy, anymore than it had been Remus' fault that he both cared about me and wanted Voldemort to die. Most of the time I wished I had never even heard of the prophecy, that my life was the same as it had been for the past five years. But that was not to be.

"You think I don't know that, Ron?" I snapped. "Do you think that I don't wonder if something will go wrong on the battlefield? I wouldn't tell anyone, anyway, whether they'd lock me up in St. Mungo's or not. I'm supposed to lead people into battle! Me, Harry Potter! It's bad enough that their leader is a scrawny teenager; the last thing they need is to know that I might not be able to lead them at all. I can't even fly a broom anymore! But if they don't follow me, Voldemort might win. And if he can win our country, who's to say that he can't take other ones, too? This isn't even as simple as 'if I tell them, they'll lock me up.' This is about more than that."

Ron looked slightly shocked and more than a little upset on my behalf, but I did not let him say anything.

"And I probably need to defeat him before we leave Hogwarts. There's no way they'll let me be an Auror, not when I can't be depended upon in the field. And if I can't be an Auror, people won't look to me for fighting the Dark. At this point, I don't know what I'll be, but I can't professionally attack Dark wizards." At this, Ron nodded, understanding my point. "And do you think that people would follow me if they knew? That Voldemort wouldn't take every advantage he could if he knew? What about the students and families who are on the fence, not knowing whether I'm trustworthy? What do you think Seamus' mother would say if she knew I had a Dark disease? What would the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs do? Or, Merlin help us, the Slytherins?"

"Calm down, Harry. You don't want to wake up the whole dorm. I wasn't saying this to bother you, or to tell you that you don't think about this enough. I just – I wanted you to know what could happen if things go wrong. If you can hide it for as long as you can, I think you should. Hermione thinks this should all be out in the open, but, and I hate to say this, she's thinking like a Muggle. She doesn't always understand our world and this is one of those little Wizarding things that you can't find in a book."

I nodded and sighed. Any hope for some peaceful meditation that morning was gone. I knew I would end up slipping away from my classmates during the day to take my potions and that Snape would be questioning me at our next meeting. He kept careful track of how many potions I took and was always suspicious if I took more than he thought necessary. When Ron and I went to the Great Hall a few minutes later, two of the first students to breakfast that day, we didn't mention our conversation. We never talked about it again. I'm still not sure whether or not he ever told Hermione about it, but it was enough to let him know that I was thinking, or trying to think, about every facet of my life and how to deal with everything. I knew that life would never be simple again, and I needed all of the friends I could I have if I wanted to face Voldemort and win.

Author's Note: Finally finished! As more and more things (like delayed flights, hospital visits, class work, and general life obligations) crowed my time, the chapters will be coming further and further apart.

Reviewers:

Starangel2106: Thank you. It is amazing what you can do when you're faced with a challenge. You can sometimes face things you never thought you could.

Elli: Thank you. Less than half of this fiction (I think) will be flashbacks. I just need to give background information before we return to the present.

Nocturnallupine: I made you laugh? I made someone laugh! I usually make people cry, so thank you for letting me know. Some parts of this fiction will be a comedy of errors; the encounter with Blaise is only the first.

Pris: Fixed.

Juliedecarson: Thank you.

Padawan Jan-AQ: Thank you. I cannot imagine Draco not taking advantage of an opportunity to make Harry look bad, especially when he has circumstantial evidence.


End file.
